Love to be Feared or Fear to be Loved?
by DragonsAreAwesome
Summary: 1558, England. King Arthur Kirkland already has enough to deal with; a feisty maid, a stuck-up bard who can't seem to get along with the jester, a self-centred jester who can't seem to get along with anyone, and a brother who he suspects is plotting against him. The last thing Arthur needs is another problem, for example... Francis Bonnefoy?(Rated M for future gore and cussing).


**I finally re-wrote it and even put a new title! I'm sorry it's taken quite a bit but I hope you like it ;)**

_1558, A Central London Marketplace_

"Stop! Thief!"

_Merde._

Francis clutched the loaf of bread close to his chest as he sprinted away from the angered voice of the shopkeeper. He sharply turned the next corner, narrowly missing a herd of unsuspecting shoppers, which elicited annoyed yells of "Watch where you're going!"

He mentally hit himself for stealing on such a crowded day, yet he couldn't bring himself to regret it; he was too hungry to regret it.

He glanced behind and instantly locked eyes with that damned persistent shopkeeper who seemed to be catching up. It was only one loaf of bread, the damage could've been _much_ worse! He pushed his way through another bustling crowd of townsfolk and spotted a rather big gap in the stone wall that lined the market. It wasn't _huge_, though it looked just big enough to squeeze through, if he was lucky.

He decided to take his chances and ran for the wall. He crashed into it and clawed at the stone on the other side, desperately trying to pull himself through the narrow gap. He was too big! His eyes widened as the shopkeeper's red face appeared in the crowd and spotted Francis immediately. Francis continued to grab at the stones from different angles in an attempt to tug himself free from where he'd stupidly lodged himself in the wall.

He let out a strangled yelp as the shopkeeper grabbed a fistful of his filthy blonde locks and tugged roughly.

"I gotcha now," the shopkeeper's rancid breath made Francis eyes water. He grimaced as the man's satisfied cackles revealed blackened teeth clinging to rotting brown gums.

Francis kicked at the stone at his feet helplessly as he continued his attempts to wriggle free from the wall _and _the shopkeeper. He felt himself slowly start to shift to the other side of the wall. His arms were shaking with the effort of dislodging himself from the rough stone and yet he managed to give one last tug and pull with each hand on opposite sides of the wall – Hang on. Where'd his bread go? Son of a –

He sighed as he slid free from the stone and decided just to focus on the task of removing the barking red-faced man's dirty hands from his hair. He grabbed the man's hands with his own and twisted them until he heard a howl of pain. As he felt the grasp loosen he pulled away and found himself sprinting down the narrow path ahead of him.

Francis turned the corner and found it to be a dead end; nothing but a door. Upon reaching it, he yanked at the metal ring that hung from the moulding wood. It wouldn't open. _Why wasn't it opening?_ He'd have to go back the other way.

The blonde retraced his steps quickly but came to an abrupt halt when he saw the outraged shopkeeper digging and clawing at the stones –where he'd come from- furiously. There were no doubts that if Francis had tried to go anywhere near there – let alone wander past there- the man would've been able to grab him.

Francis cried out in frustration and hurried back to the door, slamming himself against it without hesitation. Again, and again, and again, he charged at it, with no results. He kicked the door one last time before pushing away from it and pacing.

He heard the stone wall beginning to give way a few meters away and sighed. He threw himself backwards against one of the walls, collapsing against it and burying his head in his hands. He should've never left France, never hid on that merchant boat thinking escaping to England would make everything easier. Because it hadn't. He had no money; therefore he had to steal to eat. Stealing almost always led to severe punishments in this country. He'd been branded with a T for Thief with a hot iron on his upper arm already, to alert people of who, and what, he was. It was only for stealing a mere crumb, and it still itched even after weeks. He'd heard rumours of people having their hands cut off for stealing, sometimes being branded _on the face_.

He sighed. _Too late now_, he thought, _It's all my fault, anyway._

The door suddenly swung open, collapsing immediately from its hinges and falling to the floor with a dull 'thud'.

Francis lifted his head and peeked through his hair to meet the red eyes of another angry face – an albino who stood protectively in front of a worried-looking brunette woman.

The albino trod over the door, marching over just to scowl down at Francis.

"You could've knocked!"

* * *

**Author's Note**

**So as you can see I haven't changed anything major, the main storyline will stay the same, but I may change some minor events, i.e. Francis getting stuck in a wall (because why not?).**

**The next chapter might take a while because as I briefly mentioned before, I am re-writing everything I've done so far. I wasn't happy with the quality of the writing and such so... yeah. See 'ya next time.**

**Take care ;)**


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